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I'm really bad at being honest with myself. I can't admit what my story is about. I can't admit that's it's really just an elaborate lie in and of itself. I can't admit that I lie to myself constantly and consistently - see? That was a lie. I just admitted it by saying I couldn't admit it.

I fool myself and trick myself until I become something I don't recognize. I'm an elaborate machine, where I could just do things really simply. I have so many parts and clauses that I know something will go wrong eventually and I can be content in my constant misery. If it looks like something is going right- I'll be sure to say or do something that will make it go perfectly wrong. I guess that's just a part of the machine of me too, right? The self-destruct button, if you will.

Sometimes I'm a spectacle. I'll dress up and show myself off and pretend like it makes me feel like something of worth, although I know that it's just giving me less. I can't be comfortable unless I'm terribly ugly or ridiculous neon-sparkle-flash-heels-movie. That doesn't even make sense. What I'm saying is, I don't have any friends. What I'm saying is, no one knows me because I'm an elaborate facade, a security system worth millions of dollars set up so that no one can infiltrate it- no one can actually understand me.

And if anyone does, then I have to act quickly. I blame it on them. Focus on their personality flaws instead of admitting that they are right about me.

It's dawn and the sky is a beautiful color. The sky was a beautiful color last night too but I was too upset to notice it. I noticed it, actually, but only in an ironic way, not an appreciative way. The sky was pretty before that, too, when I was on drugs. The prettiest shapes and patterns and colors I've ever seen- I felt like I was in a movie. But that's stupid. Why am I talking about that, or the sky in general? No one actually cares and will definitely criticize me for writing these things.

I know Dan wants me to write. All he cares about are words, and numbers of words. He's a word monster. But he's my friend, and I want him to be happy.

He and Harry were writing meta-fiction. Writing about their writing. Is that right? See, I started to do that, but once I started writing, I got too honest with myself. And it scared me. Because the truth scares me. I am the King of the Bingo game. I can set up elaborate systems of things to write about and think about and that way I'll never have to know the truth, because I'll be so busy doing everything else.

This page isn't even that long and I know I'll stop once I get to the bottom. It'll be 700 words- if that. I guess that's good. Contributing to the cause. Is it bad that I only wrote four sections about my character, and then made her leave the story? No I don't think it is. Because it's not a cop-out. It's just not really fiction is all. It's a two-thousand word way of saying that I am confused. I could have just said it in those three- but Dan would've yelled at me.

I'm not the main character, not really anyway. It's just a way of figuring out what I'm trying to figure out. It's easier if you make someone else say it. It's like when you're little and you go to therapy because your parents are divorced and they think it might negatively effect your development. Yeah, they make you act out situations with dolls and toys instead of actually talking about it in terms of yourself and your family because it's easier that way.